I, Avatar
by Machaira
Summary: A work in progress in five sections. Chronicling the mysterious life of V, before he became this enigmatic figure. Alan Moore's creation is not mine. I'm just doing this for fun. And because I love V.
1. I

I.

_If I believed in God, I would be praying the single most important prayer of my life right now. I would say the words over and over, until they lost their meaning and then I'd say them again, so they would have meaning again. And then I'd repeat that cycle. Over and over. If a god existed, or cared to listen to me, this was what they would hear: I must remember who I am. I must remember who I am. Above all else, I must remember who I am. _

_But I must realize that this is reality and there is no God. And soon, with each day that these drugs take effect, they will take memories away, one by one, and I will become nothing. A blank slate. A fresh specimen for them to use however they want. I will become a slave. _

_I must remember who I am or forge for myself what I will be. Oh God, let me not be a tool. Not a fucking tool. Is this nirvana, then? I hear coughing in the cell next to me and I smell the pungent, ever-present stench of piss. The kind that permeates every inch of air and stains your skin yellow. It ferments your teeth and wilts your hair. Reddens your eyes and singes your nose. There were other smells, once. Other senses. Back when memories were made, not wiped clean. Hello. I'm here. The negative of yourself, waiting to be developed. And I will swallow you whole…_

* * *

Lavender. Her dress was lavender. I watched her from the window, in my usual spot. I had a book on my lap. It wasn't a picture book either – it was a full chapter book, one of those mass market paperbacks with just a picture of the author on the back cover. I was really young then too – I learned to read at probably two or three, though I don't remember exactly how old. I had just always been able to read. At that moment, however, I was more interested with the woman outside in the lavender dress. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even more beautiful than my mum and I wouldn't have been ashamed to admit that. I was always an honest kid – I'd tell you right away what I thought of you, and I was immediately drawn to this lady for some strange reason. I felt like I had to run outside and get her to notice me before she walked away. I _needed _to get her attention right away; it was incredibly important that I did. I got up right away and pressed my nose to the window pane, the cloud of fog appearing below my nose. I hated when this happened and wiped it away immediately.

"Mummy," I yelled. "I want to go outside. Can I go outside today, please? It's not too hot or too cold, is it?" I yelled as loud as I could. There wasn't much time to lose. My mother came in, looking tired as she usually did. I didn't know why she was always tired, but it probably had to do with me. Kids are usually good at picking up things that their parents don't like about them. She was in bed a lot too. I usually entertained myself by reading or playing with my stuffed animals. There was no TV in my hosue.

"Salim?" she said. "Why are you being so loud? You'll scare the neighbors."

"Mummy!" I said again, frustrated that she didn't answer my question the first time. The woman would be leaving soon. "I want to go outside. Please?"

My mother frowned. I hated her face when she scowled at me. It was so ugly. "No Salim," she said. "You're allergic. You'll get a boo boo again and have to go to hospital. No, you have to stay inside and read your book ok?"

"No!" I screamed, making two tight fists with my hands and shaking in rage. I got sick a lot when I was little and didn't understand why. I just wanted to be outdoors and play; but I couldn't and this time, my "allergies" (which was what my mother told me I had; she never explained what they were. I seemed to be allergic to everything) were getting in the way of something I _really_ wanted. "NO!" I yelled again. "I want outside – NOW!"

I cried and screamed while my mother tried to distract me with a toy or food, but I wasn't having it. I pulled at the doorknob with all my might, but my mother was able to pry me off easily. I kicked now, hitting her thighs with my bony heels. Even though I was only five, I knew that my heels would hurt if they hit her thighs. And they did. She turned me around and set me on the window seat, taking her hand and giving me a quick swat on my behind. That made me scream even louder; not because it hurt that much, but because I wanted her to feel guilty for hitting me.

Immediately after I did this, my mum jumped up from the window, startled at something. At first I thought it might have been my scream. But a second later I realized what it had actually been.

"Get your hands off that boy!" It was the woman in the lavender dress. Her face was suddenly inches away from the window. She glared at us both from outside and then knocked on the door. My mother looked terribly frightened. She looked to either side of her, as though waiting for someone else to come to the door to deal with the situation. But there was no one else in our house. My father died before I was born and none of my grandparents lived nearby. I didn't even meet any of them until after I was five years old.

The knocking persisted, and quite loudly, so my mother had no chance but to open the door. She took me by the wrist and started to guide me around her. I, still in a foul mood, resisted and as my mother opened the door, I was crying in protest with her hand on my wrist.

"Stop!" I heard the lady say in a very frightening tone. I looked up at her. She was even more beautiful, but now I was a little afraid of her. I thought maybe she was angry at me. But she was speaking to my mother.

"Unhand that child," she said.

My mum slunk back a bit, since she was significantly smaller than the British woman. But my mother was probably used to being pushed around, being the youngest of 6 children, so she didn't completely back down. "Who are you?" she said with her thick accent.

If the woman in lavender had a bad opinion of my mother when she had been glaring at us through the window, then she certainly despised her now. Her whole countenance darkened and she drew out a piece of paper from her purse. She then said something about how she had been looking for me, because I was her brother's son and that meant she was my aunt. I had never met any of my relatives prior to this, but even at such a young age I knew that this lady had to be lying. She looked nothing like me. My skin was browner than hers and I had dark hair. I had never thought much about what I looked like until I was compared so drastically to her. She had really light, shining hair, like the color of dandelions. She looked like one of the ladies in one of my books about King Arthur and the Round Table. I thought she must have been confused to think she was my auntie. She was very angry, after all.

However, my mum got very scared after the lady showed her the paper. When the woman left, mum cried all afternoon. I felt a little sorry about making such a fuss, but I was still curious about the lavender lady and hoped she might be back. She was just so pretty. I hoped the next time I would see her she wouldn't be so angry, and that we'd all get along and have some tea together or maybe dinner. Surely, the lavender woman would only want the best for me. Mother would understand. She was just startled.

A week later the men came and that was the last time I saw my mother. I was scared at first, but then the men told me that I was going to have a new mother and showed me a picture that had the lavender lady in it. Then I was excited. Perhaps she would give me lots of sweets and I would be able to have a trampoline like the kids across the street. I wanted to go over and jump on it, but mother yelled at me, saying it was dangerous and I would have to go to Hospital and the kids pointed their fingers and were laughing because I couldn't do something so simple like jump on a trampoline. I didn't understand it then; I just wanted to jump high like that. I tried on my own, but the ground was so hard. Plus, one time when I tried to jump from the kitchen counter, I sprained my ankle and mother got really upset with me. So I didn't try to jump high anymore in the house.

Suddenly, though, the lavender lady was like a second chance at everything. Perhaps then I would be able to go outside and play more. I didn't have any friends and it would be nice.

#

When I first got to the house I thought we must be in the wrong place. It was so huge, at least compared to my house. There were so many new things to explore! I loved stories about treasure and explorers – I wanted to grow up and explore Antartica, just because it seemed the furthest place away from England. But when I got inside, there were a lot of people talking about me in whispers and looking at me with curious eyes. I was told where I would be sleeping and what I was expected to do in order to get "good boy points" which would be on a chart above my bed. If I got 10 good boy points by the end of the week I would get a treat. But if I did a lot of bad things, I would have stuff taken away from me. They said this was so I would learn to be disciplined and take responsibility.

Those were big words for me and I just felt so nervous all of a sudden and right then I wanted my mother so bad. I asked why she wasn't going to live with me and when they said mummy was going to get a new job, I got so angry. I rolled up my hands into tiny fists of rage and screamed. I screamed and screamed, even when they left me alone in my new room. I knew they had to come back in. Mother always came back in. But they didn't. When my normal routine hadn't worked on my new family, it occurred to me, even then at such a young age, that everything was going to be different.

I was never going to go back to Mother. I was never going to wake up to the smell of sweet, exotic spices simmering on the stove. I wasn't going to be able to run into Mother's room at night when I had a bad dream, or when I was feeling ill. She never cared if it might get her sick as well. She always let me stay in her tiny bed with her that was surrounded by pillows she had made herself, bright and colorful, with embroidered designs on them. She made me one for my last birthday, when I turned 7. It was red with the outline of a tiger embroidered on with white thread. I would used to lay in bed, when I was too bored, but too tired to do anything, and run my fingers along the bumpy, zig-zagging thread and trace the outline of the tiger over, and over. _I want to be like a tiger_, I would think. _Nothing would get in my way; I could jump, play and swim for as long as I wanted without getting sick. Without being weak. _Someday, I would be strong.

But I looked around the room where I had been placed. My new home, supposedly. The walls were egg white with brown trim. My bed was comfortable, but plain. The bedspread was navy blue, and my three pillows were white. There was no embroidery on them. I rested my head down on one, grabbed another with my right arm and drew it close to my body. The fabric was stiff and shiny, which felt weird against my sweaty palms. I balled up my fist again and tucked it underneath the pillow. With eyes squeezed shut, the tears wedged out of the corners of my eyes and slopped down the side of my face, making pools of saltwater on either side of my ears. This was my new room, in my new big house, with my new lavender lady – my long lost auntie – but this was not my home. And I was not going to be any stronger.


	2. II

II.

_Forget it. Forget everything good about where you came from, or who you are. You're nothing but a collection of atoms – a series of random coincidences. No, that is too eloquent a description. You are not 'poetry in motion' or a delicate conclusion to a semi-dubious beginning. You are just there – the walls and halls of this place have sucked you dry, made you understand what you truly are. The thoughts in your head become a series of computer operations. Stand. Squat. Lie. Breathe. Eat. Defecate. Repeat. You know you're becoming this – a blank slate. An empty body. But you don't stop. You're too tired. Too tired even to care, or wonder why you're headed towards oblivion. Everything screams to give up, and you'll willingly comply. And yet… memories are the last to go. The final shreds of dignity left, only remaining still because they've been branded on your skull. They aren't conscious thoughts. They're welded onto the very strands of your DNA. They'll remain until you perish. But if they can't motivate you climb out of the feces you've been sleeping in for the past two days, do they really matter? _

_You should only hear the sounds of yourself decaying, but there is another noise in the background. It is a sound of small, tiny scratching. Not rats. Something else. It is the person in the death box beside me. It sounds like they are trying to frantically compose a 'mein kampf' before the inevitable. How predictable. What use are memories of the dead? Those doctors, physicians – fellow citizens – didn't bring us here to later publish our collected memoirs. Do you ever see cemeteries for lab rats? Exactly. _

_* * *  
_

The stone grazed the tip of my ear, just seconds after it left the thrower's hand. I heard it coming before I felt it. The soft, almost gentle "whoosh" it made through the air was almost like that of a breeze during springtime. Except this breeze had a harmful intent.

"Get out, Paki! Get out before I hit you a second time, and this time it'll be straight on your brown head!"

The boy's voice didn't sound much older than mine. I was 13 now, but this number, which was supposed to represent some sort of transition – a landmark in the quest for maturity and self reliance – signified nothing for me. I was rendered as helpless as an infant again. I never knew how to react to this kind of adolescent jeering. At school, it was just whispers behind my back. I heard them very well – I had considerable good hearing, a somewhat surprising fact due to my other medical conditions. Mostly they wondered who I was and if I was only here for the "special school", which is what they called the center where my specialist had her office, and where I went after classes three times a week.

After the boy yelled his slur, I bowed my head, my face turning red, but I did not look back. I did not want the boy to see my face and have another reason to jeer at me. My steps quickened. I shouldn't have been late! I shouldn't have been late!

"Yeah that's right, you bloody Paki," a new voice yelled at me. Great. I was outnumbered now. "You had better run. You don't belong here. Your people don't belong here."

My people, huh? Were they really so blind? Yes, it was clear to most people that I had an Indian ethnic background, but my father had been white. Otherwise, my aunt would have never come for me. And can't they tell at least that I'm different from a Pakistani? I guess not. So long as I had a tinge of brown. That was enough for them. Ignorant jerks. I couldn't take that. I had to defend myself. But I should have just kept going. I should have known that you can never hope to change people when they've set on a course of action. Especially a violent one. Ignorant people can never be shown their ignorance. I would only realize this far too late.

I turned around, my face still tinged with crimson, my tiny shoulders quivering. Somehow I mustered up the courage to squeak back at them. "I'm not a Paki!" I said. "So go throw rocks at someone else."

The boys looked back at me, a bit stunned. I knew who they were immediately – skinheads. The sweat I had been secreting during the light exertion of walking had turned into a cold, clammy liquid. I sized them up quickly, but it wouldn't matter. I was doomed. The stockier of the two boys had scars on his face, like he had already been a veteran of some heavy fighting. They were probably in a street gang. If I had seen them first, I wouldn't have ever spoke to them. I was taught that these people only had one kind of directive: inspire fear. They were uneducated and unreachable. Fear was my initial response. My stomach heaved when I saw that a smile crept up on one of the boy's face – exactly the kind of smile that you never want to see. Satisfied, cold and unmerciful.

"Oh really?" he said in his thick accent. "Then what are you doing here if you're not a bloody Paki? If you didn't want something you wouldn't be here."

Well, duh. I didn't _choose_ to be in this neighborhood. I missed my pickup at school to get to the tube stop. My school was in central London because of the specialists I had to see. There was a bus stop not far, but the bus had already left and if I had to wait for another one, I would have missed my departure time at the tube in order to get back home in time. Walking was the only option left – I had no money for a cab. In order to get to the tube station, I would have to trek through some less than desirable neighborhoods.

I shouldn't have gotten lost at school again. It had been a year and I still was not used to the place. Plus everything looked the same: white and sterile. I joked to myself that it was kind of like an insane asylum from the 50's, but that joke hit too close to home most of the time. I often did feel like a prisoner. I didn't have many friends at school. I didn't understand what to do most of the time. That's why I went to see a specialist. Auntie wanted to make sure I had the most normal school experience as possible. Normal. Yeah right. What was that?

"Faggot!" the stocky boy yelled. He looked like he had a good arm on him. Damn. I would have to run. Now.

"Ha! Run, Faggot, Run!" he said and then laughed as this was the funniest joke he had ever heard in his life. "Look at his skinny twit body! Faggot Paki! Faggot Paki!"

The two laughed at each other and then picked up more rocks. It wouldn't have mattered if they were rockets. I hated running. Absolutely despised it. But it was better than being stoned to death. Like it was fucking 1239. I guess they weren't able to snag a gun… yet.

Heaving every breath as though it were my last, I felt a rock hit my elbow. I screamed, the tears coming to my eyes. I slowed my pace as I gripped the injured elbow with my right hand. That was a bad move. Another rock hit my shoulder blade. I couldn't hear them very well now – their laughing and jeering was reduced to a dull hum in the background. Each place they had hit felt like fire; my lungs were burning too. I hadn't run very far and yet it felt like I had been in a marathon.

Not watching at all where I was going, I turned a corner and, to add to the misery, I ran into someone at full speed.

We cried out in unison and were thrown back a couple feet from the impact.

"Sorry!" a girl yelled out when she had recovered slightly. She rubbed her arm and looked at me accusingly. "Slow down a little, yeah? I almost got a concussion from that! Be careful, would you?"

I kept my head down so she couldn't see me crying. But that didn't fool her.

Her eyes widened and her tone changed immediately from accusatory to concerned. "What's the matter? Are you hurt real bad?!" She caught sight of my bruised elbow and gasped. "Oh gosh, did you hit the side of the building coming around the corner?" But, her question was answered differently as she looked behind me and around the corner to see my two assailants heading towards us. She sucked in a breath and cursed. "No way," she said. "Did these guys do this to you?"

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I was still catching my breath and I was too ashamed. I couldn't even say sorry for running into her.

"Come on," she said and grabbed my hand. The unhurt one. "I'll get you out of here. Where are you headed?"

My head snapped up, my eyes red and wet. But I didn't care. "Wha-wha-"

"Come on, then," she interrupted. Her voice was back on edge. "Where are you headed? I haven't got all day. But I guess you could just handle it yourself..."

"No!" I squeaked out. "the tube. I need the tube. I need to get home."

She let out an exasperated sigh. "That's a long walk, but whatever. What the hell are you doing over here? You don't just go wandering around London, okay? Not here anyway. Stupid boy." But she pulled my hand and drug me inside a curry shop that had floor to ceiling window treatments. We heard feet rushing past the shop, but I wasn't sure if it was them or not. The street where I had turned onto and hit the girl was busier. And it was getting close to rush hour. I looked over at my unexpected rescuer. She was quite stocky herself, and a couple years older than me. Taller, too, but I was quite small for my age. Her hair was straight and stringy, like she hadn't washed it for a couple days. She didn't smell though; not that I could tell. We were in a curry shop, though, which made me hungry. I didn't dare ask her if we could pause to get some food. I had already troubled her enough anyway. She spoke the same way as those boys. She probably lived in this neighborhood. But I wasn't afraid of her. Not like that. She meant well. Though she was tough looking, she seemed like every other girl, just trying to go about her business. I guess I had a knack for getting in people's way.

"Figured me out yet?" she said. "I guess you must be ok."

I was flustered again, tired, and now wounded. I could only shake my head, hoping this would be enough to show that I wasn't ok. Not at all.

She kept her gaze forward and only stole glances at me. "Oh calm down," she said. "I'm not going to do anything to you. I'm not like them."

I only sniffed in reply and wiped my nose with my sleeve. Without saying anything, or even giving me a look of disgust (which I expected), she reached over and pulled out a couple of torn napkins from the silver napkin dispenser on the bar that lined the main window.

I took one hurriedly and blew my nose loudly. My ears burned when I realized how loud it sounded in the empty shop. The owners must have been staring at us in contempt. But my rescuer seemed to not mind.

"All good?"

I nodded.

"Not a chatty one are you? Hmm. Perhaps that's a good thing. Well, you had best be on your way. Wherever it is you're going. Home, you said? Man, you're in a real mess to end up here. I don't know what to tell you, kid. You gotta know where you're going, you know? People aren't just going to go out of your way to help you."

Perplexed, I looked up at her. "But… you did."

"Only cuz I had nothing better to do," she snapped. Now facing me, I saw that her teeth were yellowing and she had quite a bit of acne. Some of the red spots looked as though they had been picked at. I tried not to grimace, but I was never good at hiding my emotions.

"What?" she spoke angrily, noticing my gaze. "You don't like my face?"

I stammered, trying to back track. "Huh? No no, I wasn't saying–

"You didn't. And you didn't have to. You're not very good at this? Having to deal with people like me?"

Interesting. After spending only 5 minutes with me, she had managed to figure out the majority of my personality. And I had not even uttered enough sentences to fill a paragraph. My lack of depth was very disquieting and the shame I felt ate away at my pride for quite a long time. Suddenly, I felt little difference between me and the skinheads that had just tried to stone me, 14th century style.

"I…. I'm sorry. I just… I'm… I have a specialist," I said, hoping that this would serve as both an excuse and a way to show that I was trying to be better.

Surprisingly, she smiled. "Oh really? What kind of specialist? I hope it's a nutritionist because you're skinnier than a crack head with a two-week stash."

"I'm allergic," I piped up, feeling the need to defend myself _a little bit_.

"To what? Food."

My nostrils caught the whiff of the curry being cooked in the back and my stomach rumbled immediately.

She heard it and laughed, which sounded like an old person's wheezing cough. It was funny, so I smiled. Our noise caught the attention of the shopkeepers and they glared at us menacingly.

"Oh fine," she said loudly. "We're going, geez. Sorry kid, maybe a food shop was a bad choice for a hideout. You gonna make it until you get home?"

"I think so," I said. I was slightly embarrassed by being laughed at for my stomach's noisemaking, but again, I didn't feel threatened by her, even though she could have easily beat me up. We walked out onto the street and she hailed a cab immediately.

I looked up at her, embarrassed again. "Wait," I protested. "I don't have the money. I'll just walk. You've done enough. I can't thank you enough." I stopped. I just had realized that I hadn't thanked her until then.

"You won't make it in time," she said simply. She then grabbed my hand and held it as she thrust a ten-pound note into it and closed my fingers over it.

My eyes widened and I shook my head. "No, no, no," I repeated as I tried to free my hand and give the money back.

But she was strong. "Stop being a baby," she said. "Accept a little help once in awhile. It's ok. I have a huge allowance because my parents don't want me to get into drugs or some shit like that."

I winced. She was going to force me to take it, but I looked back at her pleadingly. She didn't really look like she had that big of an allowance at all.

"Ugh," she growled. "Just get in the cab. You're blocking traffic. Don't you dare try to throw that back at me. I'll stuff it in your skinny little face. And don't tell me you're allergic to money."

I relented and slunk into the back seat of the cab. What could I do?

She bent down and motioned for the cab driver to lower the window of the front passenger seat. "Take him to the tube station please. He'll miss his connection if he's late."

The cabbie nodded and then started to drive away. Humiliated and now in debt to a stranger, I shut my eyes tightly and willed it all to be dream. But it would not go away. The throbbing of my elbow reminded me that it had all been so vividly real. I had once again failed to live up to my own expectations. Should I bother trying to make them anymore? No matter what I did, there was always something I didn't expect. There were always surprises; I didn't much care for surprises. They through me off. I had a hard enough time as it was.

I opened my eyes and looked out the window. Then, feeling a desire to look back, I turned around and faced the back window of the cab. To my complete and utter shock, I saw her, standing at the corner, staring straight at me, her arms folded and her eyes fixed. She did not move or even scratch her head absently. She was going to wait until I was out of her view; she wanted to make sure I stayed on that cab and made it to my destination. This unwavering commitment – however slight – to me, a complete stranger, filled me with a sense of perplexed awe and wonder. I wish I could say that this was a turning point for me. That the random act of a stranger, who I had thought was completely annoyed with me, had given me the hope and encouragement I would need to believe in myself – to fight for my survival in a sea of cynicism and disappointment. I wish I could say the image of her, stoic and strong, standing amongst a crowd of apathetic bystanders, was seared forever into my memory. But I hadn't even asked for her name. I hadn't even occurred to me to do so.


	3. III

III.

_If you had been where I was – given the chance to remake yourself. You could be whomever and whatever you wanted. When everything else seemed to go so slow; when no matter what you did, and despite your best attempts, the thing that was keeping you from achieving your best (whatever that may be; your best had never been good enough. Not just for others. But for yourself), was you. Your flawed, ugly, imperfect, clumsy, weak body. Now, the chance of a lifetime: a scientific study conducted and backed by the highest authority in the land has asked for willing participants to test out new regenerative drugs. Sound sketchy? Like some kind of penis enlargement spam advert? Maybe. Probably. I was always a little naïve, but I was never completely stupid. But with a mountain of debt, no job in sight, and a heart that burned with prideful rebellion, I was tempted. So, if you were me, what would you choose? Would it make any difference, any bit of difference at all, if it wasn't entirely for you, but also for someone else? Someone you really cared about? How far would you go to guarantee the safety of someone you loved? _

There is a particular way in which airports smell. I love it. It's not something I can easily describe. You might think it would smell like most places where lots of people congregate: an intricate vapor blend of sweat, perfume, cologne, cooking oil and alcohol filling the air like some kind of humanity cocktail (one that, admittedly, doesn't seem very appealing at all). The airport does smell like this inside, but this is not the smell I'm talking about. It's actually one you get before even entering the building. It's the smell that comes around the last bend or stretch of highway that you take to get there. It must be something that sweeps off the runway tarmac, seeping lightly into the top notes of the air and gliding into your nostrils, creating an instant signal that travels to your brain and triggers a thought that goes "ah yes. This is where dreams begin. This is where adventures start." Then your brain reminds you of other airport smells: the distinct whiff of plastic and fabric coming from the luggage when it gets off the carousals; the crisp, woody hint of paper being torn from the ticket counters; the cool, sterilized aroma of the airport washrooms, where you duck in quickly before getting to the tiny little chairs near your gate that look and smell like they've been sent straight from the warehouse. Little cheap theatre seats squished together in compact rows, absolutely useless for sitting comfortably. And if you're stuck in the airport overnight, forget it. You won't sleep.

But the lack of home comforts is exactly the point. You're not supposed to feel at home when you're on your way somewhere else. It's about looking forward to what's going to await you ahead. And that's the whole appeal. I love all these smells because they remind me of one of my most favorite things: getting away from the house. I was seventeen when I first left the country, and I was addicted to the thrill immediately. Though my aunt Camille had done nothing but good things for me since I lived with her, it never felt completely natural. Camille worked a lot as a high-powered lawyer in The City. She was not married, but didn't need to be in order to keep me.

She made enough money, and on top of that, had inherited a good deal of assets (including a high interest CD in a Swiss bank and a time-share property) from my paternal grandfather when he had died. When I asked about the manner of his death, I was given vague answers. Apparently it was medical, like my father. Some kind of genetic disorder. With all of my health issues, I had naturally been concerned that I would meet an early death as well. But Camille assured me that I had tests already done and that their disorder had been ruled out. I wasn't convinced. Sure that eventually I would die in some horrible and dramatic way, I made it my mission to accomplish one of my lifetime goals: to travel as much as I could. Yet though my aunt was fairly well off, rent in London was not cheap, and I wasn't about to ask her for money anyway. She did enough for me.

Ireland ended up being my first destination outside of England and it was on a class trip. It was nothing exotic, but I always had a fascination for the Celtic people (much of it had to do with my penchant for fantasy; I believe I romanticized them quite a bit). It was the shortest plane ride I ever had, but it was my first one, so it was still exciting. It was like a whole new chapter in my life had begun. I had no idea where I would go next. I fantasized, while packing in my room the night before, that maybe I would sneak away from my group and purchase a ticket to Fiji or Thailand with the money I had saved up from working part time at the local hell hole (Woolworth's).

I had never given much thought to where I was going to end up in life. My health problems had consumed my consciousness for quite awhile – I would be sick for weeks at a time and no one could tell me what exactly I had. Often, my sickness (usually involving stomach cramps, vomiting and other bowel problems which I'd rather not explain in detail) was accompanied by swelling in my hands or arms. The days I spent in the hospital while they ran tests were spent with mounds of books. Reading had always been my pride. I read _Les Miserables _in a week and asked my fifth grade teacher about it after school.

"Miss Harriet," I had said. "Do you think Napolean would have done a better job if he lived in today's times?" The look on her face was priceless. But books were my comfort when no one else was around. Camille was always sympathetic, but she could rarely stay in the hospital with me. She had work to do, and I didn't blame her for it. She probably hadn't realized what trouble I would become when she had taken me away from mum so many years ago. The only other thing I wanted for my life, aside from getting some treatment so I could live normally, was to see mum again. I asked about her, after I had been good for a couple years and didn't complain, and Camille told me that she had left to go back to India. I believed her immediately and cried for weeks alone in my room. How gullible I was. How simple a mind. Completely unwavering in my trust. I had always been protected by my mother – I had no reason to think that Camille had anything other than my best interests at heart. Oh, if only things could really be solved with a simple cry and a stack of blocks.

In reality, there was no way in heaven or hell that I could have ever predicted where I would end up. Life has a curious way of taking any plans you have and completely turning them upside down and throwing them back in your face.

For example, due to a mix up in the roster, I had been given a seat that was going to split up two of the nastiest girls in my school. Of course, they complained immediately about it and I was given Natasha's (the skinnier, and therefore, the more nasty of the two) original seat. That simple mistake brought me to someone I never thought I'd meet in my entire life: a girl that talked to me without feeling sorry for me first.

"Hello," she said in a bubbly voice. "I guess we're row partners now, huh? I hope I don't smell or something. That girl left pretty quickly." Her voice was not annoying cheerful, thank goodness. I always felt that people who were too perky had something sinister to hide.

I was busy putting my carry-on luggage in the top compartments so I wasn't looking at her when she spoke to me. When I finally had my bag squeezed in, I closed the cover and got ready to sit down. I glanced down at her and was immediately taken aback. She was absolutely, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my entire life. I was confused. Why hadn't they given this seat to one of the jocks? Why weren't more guys clamoring to get this empty seat? Now that she was both cheery _and_ beautiful, my mind went into panic mode and I immediately clammed up. I always got this way. I just simply didn't know what to talk about. How could we have _anything_ in common? Also, when a girl was too pretty, it was easy to just stare, and even I knew that staring makes people uncomfortable. I cleared my throat and nervously sat down, edging myself to the far right side of the seat. Gingerly, I found the right side of my seat belt and then searched for the other side. Mortified, I saw that the side with the buckle was lying over her exposed thigh. I swallowed hard and thought through how I would approach the subject. Maybe I could get the flight attendant to do it for me.

Fortunately, I was sitting next to someone who had more intuition than I would ever hope to possess. When she saw me looking over, she knew immediately what I needed.

"Oh here you go, sorry," she said, again in her cheery voice. Her Irish accent was adorable. I loved accents in general and I never understood why British people often joked that the Irish accent was low class. "I'm pretty sure you'll need that; these attendants are militant about airplane safety." She giggled a little and I blushed, feeling bad that I had inconvenienced her.

"Thanks," I mumbled.

"Are you with the school that just boarded?" There was no awkwardness in her manner. She seemed very comfortable to discuss whatever.

This helped immensely. Now that I didn't have to worry about possibly molesting her by accident in order to get my seat belt on, I looked up at her face and then over at the rest of my classmates who were scattered about the plane. "Oh yeah," I said lamely. I then realized that we were all wearing the same uniform anyway, so she must have asked that out of politeness. Feeling a sudden shame for how my annoying classmate had left her seat, I wanted to make things right, so that this friendly, delightful girl knew that I wasn't a jerk from a posh high school.

"Sorry about that one," I said about Natasha. "She hasn't eaten for a week so everything makes her angry. Plus, I think her face is permanently stuck in that position."

She laughed brightly at this. Her laugh was hearty and loud. Several people in front of us looked back with raised eyebrows. I didn't really care though. I noticed that her teeth were white, but not really straight. They were normal though, not bleached white like some washed up celebrity. I saw that there was a faint splash of freckles all over her face that spread out down her neck, towards her shoulders and got a little darker on her arms. She looked like she would burn very easily in the sun. But her hair was her most attractive feature: it was long and light ginger – strawberry blond I guess you would call it. It was beautiful. I had never seen hair that exact shade. We were quite a contrast, sitting beside one another. Her eyes looked light brown from where I was sitting, but she probably had hazel eyes. I wasn't about to lean in to look more closely. I was already close enough. I still couldn't believe I was sitting to such a gorgeous girl, and friendly at that! I suddenly wished that the plane ride would be longer.

"So why are you guys visiting Ireland," she asked. "It's not really the tourist destination these days."

"It's for history," I said.

"Wow, you must go to a cool school. I wish we went on trips like that."

"Eh it's all right. It's kind of too big for me." I didn't really feel like talking about school or my lack of good friends. I didn't want her to think I was lame _right _away.

"Oh yeah? How many students?"

"I dunno, a couple thousand." I really didn't know how many there were. I didn't care to keep track.

She must have noticed the reluctance in my tone, so she changed subjects slightly. "Where are you headed in Ireland? Well, besides Dublin obviously."

"We'll stay in the city a couple days," I said. "Then we'll visit the key Celtic sites around it. How about you? Are you visiting or going home?"

"Going home," she said. I figured, but I thought it would be rude if presumed as much to her. "I live in Western Ireland, near Cork. I have to take a long bus ride when we land in Dublin." She grimaced slightly, but her tone remained upbeat. "It'll be a long day."

"Wow," I said. "Yeah that's too bad." My disappointment was evident. I had hoped there might be more than an hour to get to know this girl. I hinted at that slightly as I continued. "It would have been nice to get an insider's perspective while there. I'd much rather visit a native in a new place – it seems like a much rewarding experience that way."

"Oh definitely," she said, her face lighting up. "And I'd be happy to give you some tips on where to go and stuff. I have an uncle who lives in Dublin and I visit him pretty often. And I know I would have appreciated knowing someone in London before I went there the first time."

"Really? You've been here before?"

She nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. "Yeah, I'm really familiar with it now, but when I first got here it was very overwhelming. I hadn't been to a city that big before!"

I was now really curious. She went to London a lot? This was promising. I wanted to pry, but not make it too obvious. "Do you have family here as well?"

"No," she said. "I take trips every so often to visit a specialist."

If I wasn't very eager before, I certainly was now. And I stopped trying to analyze every action I took. I completely forgot all that upon learning this new information. Perhaps I had found a kindred spirit.

"That's interesting," I said and then smiled a huge grin. "That's also why I'm living in London. I go to this school because of the specialists that work there. I guess they have some of the best. I hope, though, you're not going because of something serious."

"Oh no," she said. "But I have a hard time focusing while in school, plus I forget things easily. I remember faces better than names. Also, I have a lazy eye that twitches a lot, but I think that's just something I'll have to live with."

She pointed it out and sure enough, her left eye twitched almost on command. She chuckled a little and then shrugged. She clearly didn't seem concerned about having to see a specialist, and I wondered if she was just playing it down for my sake or if there were more issues that lay underneath. In my experience, people just don't go to a place like London because of problems paying attention. You go there when you're trying to get something diagnosed and have no idea what it actually is. I so desperately wanted to tell her all my medical woes and get her to confide in me about hers, but it just wasn't decent. We were at a delicate place – I wanted to get to know her more, but it seemed that in the direction we were going, getting to know each other would involve some very personal details. And yet, these could be the details that strengthen our bond. Isn't the saying "you have to take a risk to find true love"?

I sat back in silence, wondering if she and I might have similar conditions and then fantasized for awhile about all the things we could share, having experienced the same childhood trauma and fear of hospitals, doctors and needles. We'd sit outside and talk for hours, looking up at the sky and imagine what kind of planets would be in other universes. We'd laugh at each other's lame jokes and then I would run my fingers through her hair and hug her from behind, putting my nose down and taking in the sweet smell of her. And she'd squeeze back, a wordless reminder of how she felt about me. There wouldn't need to be words. We'd understand each other perfectly. We'd just get it. Like true soul mates. There wouldn't be any need for anyone else.

I don't know how long I sat there day dreaming, but I was shook out of it immediately when I felt her touching my arm. "Sorry," she said. "Was that too much information? My mum often tells me that I say too much to random people. But you're not just anyone, are you?" She gave me a smile, which lit up her whole face, and I felt myself immediately redden in response. In order to avoid looking flustered, I pretended like I needed some air. I reached up and turned the dial above my seat to let the outside air in. Unfortunately, I didn't realize then that it doesn't work when the plane is still on the ground.

"Oh why don't you just take your sweater off," she said, buying it. "It must get really warm wearing that. I would hate a uniform."

"Huh? Your school doesn't have one?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Thank goodness!" She then turned and looked out the window. "I wish we would just take off already." She said this in a much lower tone and I could barely make it out. I felt my palms get sweaty – was she already bored with me? I cleared my throat nervously, hoping that my poor social skills would be sufficient to sustain a conversation. "It should be soon enough," I said. "I can't wait. This is my first time on a plane."

She snapped her head back around, looking surprised. I noticed that her right hand was gripping the armrest. "What? You're kidding! You've never been on a plane before?"

I shrugged and shook my head. I didn't think it was _that_ ludicrous. "Nope. And, if I might add," I cleared my throat again and looked away from her. "I'm glad that my first plane ride has me sitting next to such a nice person. I don't mean that to be cheesy. I mean it – I hear horror stories of sitting next to really fat guys or people with screaming children." Ugh. The way it came out of my mouth was so definitely cheesy. And did I have to ramble on and on? Plus, I mumbled near the end and so made it worse. I decided to not let it just end there. "I'm Salim, by the way," I said. I was able to finally look back at her. She was smiling that disarming smile. I practically melted in my seat.

She reached over, took my right hand in hers and squeezed it. "I'm Elaine," she said. "Good to meet you Salim. And thank you for what you said. I appreciate it." She then giggled, which may or may not have been a good thing, but I was glad at least that I didn't disgust her.

Suddenly, the flight attendants got our attention and went through the safety procedures. Shortly after that, the pilot said a few words and then we started to taxi on the runway. When it got time for takeoff, I turned towards Elaine so I could look out the window. But I was surprised to see that she wasn't looking out as well. Instead, she had her head bowed and her eyes squeezed shut. She had both hands on the armrests, clenching tightly as though the seat was going to jerk violently and throw her around. Concerned for her safety, I immediately fantasized that I, being a brave and kind man, better than any else she had ever known, would know exactly what to do to comfort her. Gently, I'd put my arm around her and rub her back. She would breathe deeply and open her eyes, staring into mine with absolute trust and assurance. But that was just my imagination. Instead, I merely stared at her silently. What did I know? I barely knew this girl. I had only just gotten her name. My advances would clearly be seen as sexual harassment.

We were up in the air now, and I had completely forgotten to look out the window to observe the ground getting smaller beneath us. Elaine relaxed her grip and let out a long breath. She opened her eyes and let her head fall back on the head rest, pressing the button on the side of the arm rest to recline the chair at the same time.

"Elaine," I said slowly.

"Call me Ellie," she said. "Everyone does."

"Really? I like that."

"Thanks."

"Ellie?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you afraid of flying?"

"Was it that obvious?" Her tone was sarcastic, but not mean. "Yeah, it's just a thing I have."

"I don't care. I just am surprised. You fly a lot don't you?"

"Not my choice," she said simply.

I immediately sympathized, even if I didn't share the same condition. "Can't you go on the ferries?"

"Takes more time," she said. "Besides, I already said it wasn't my choice." Her tone was edging on annoyance now. Best to leave it.

"Sorry," I said quietly. "Wish I could help."

I must have looked pretty repentant, because I felt her hand touch mine. I stiffened slightly at her touch. It was just so unexpected.

"Gee, Salim, don't worry about it. It's not your fault or anything. I just get crabby when I have to get on planes."

"You didn't seem crabby to me."

"That's because I had someone to distract me, silly. It was you. So thanks, Salim."

I was soaring. Figuratively and literally I guess. How cheesy is that?

"Call me Sam," I said. "Most people do."

"Why? That's not a nickname for Salim. Wouldn't it be Sal or something like that?"

"Eww," I said.

"Salim is fine with me. That's an Indian name, right?"

"Yep," I said. "My mum's side is."

"Right on," she said. "Where in England were you born?"

And just like that, we eased on to the next conversation. She was very easy to talk to. And she definitely enjoyed talking. I'll admit, I was a little weary of it after awhile only because I wasn't used to having someone talk to me so long.

Before we knew it, the hour was up and we were approaching Dublin. My head turned to look out the window.

"Can you see?" Ellie said and she leaned back as far as she could so I would be afforded the best view possible.

I found that incredibly thoughtful and endearing. I wanted to tell her she didn't need to do that, but I was immediately transfixed by what I saw out of the window. "It's so green…"

"Duh," she said and then laughed. "It's called the Emerald Isle, you know."

I smirked. "I wonder if there's a yellow brick road too."

"And a scary magician hiding behind a curtain? I hope not."

"What would you ask him, if you could ask for anything?"

Ellie looked thoughtful for a moment. Her eyes started to get wet. "Just one thing? That's a tough decision..." Her tone softened. Obviously, this had brought up some painful memories.

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything. It seemed like an uneasy mood had been cast over our heads, so I wanted to give her some peace. Perhaps she had lost someone. I certainly didn't want to say the wrong thing. We sat in silence as we landed, and I noticed that she seemed more relaxed than on the take off.

As we disembarked, I kept an eye out for our professor while also making sure Elaine wouldn't just run off. But I really didn't need to. She was right next to me as we walked onto the ramp that led towards our gate. Before we got inside, Elaine stopped and took a deep breath. I moved towards her, out of the way of the people behind us, and waited.

"Smell that," she said.

I obeyed, mimicking her over-exaggerated gesture. "It smells like air. And tarmac."

She flicked me lightly with the back of her hand. "No, dummy. It's the smell of clean, Irish air. You're lucky to breathe it."

I turned to her and smiled. "I guess so."

While we walked towards the luggage claim, I found myself a little disappointed in the Dublin airport. Perhaps I thought, for some reason, that it would be different. But it was the same as any airport, just smaller and a little behind on the technology. I waited to pass judgment – after all we weren't technically in the country yet.

"Ellie," I began. "Do you know how to get to the pub where James Joyce used to write?" No answer. I looked to my right, where Ellie had just been a moment before, but she was not there. A feeling of dread washed over me as I immediately stopped walking and spun around. "Ellie? Ellie?" I pushed through a group of people blocking the way back and saw just ahead a small circle of people crowding around one of the benches. My heart dropped when I saw a streak of light red hair on the carpet.

I ran over, completely leaving my school group behind. They didn't matter now. "Ellie!" I said, pushing one of the gaping observers out of the way. A man was down by her side, feeling her pulse. He looked up at me. "Do you know her?"

I nodded, swallowing hard. "I didn't even see her disappear. What happened? Are we just standing around or what?" I was so angry at myself for leaving her in peril. I wanted to take it out on this stupid, gaping crowd.

"The medics are coming," he said.

"She just fainted," a woman in the group said. "She nearly hit her head on that bench."

_Oh god. No. Let her be all right_. Behind me, I could hear frantic, muffled sounds of voices coming over transmitters. The medics were fast. A couple of them nudged me out of the way as they asked questions and bent down to revive Elaine with what looked like smelling salts.

Her eyes fluttered open and when she realized where she was, her face immediately went red. She tried to jerk herself upright, but a medic took her arm and eased her up slowly. "Careful," he said. "You took a fall."

"I'm all right," she said. Her face was growing redder by the minute and she kept her eyes down. "I'm fine. Just – just let me go. I need to go."

"Wait, miss," the medic said. "We need to get some information down. What exactly happened? How were you feeling before you fell?"

"I-I just fell, that's all," she said. She wasn't a very good liar.

"Ellie I'm so sorry," I spat out. But she couldn't hear me.

"What caused the fall?" the medic persisted. "Are you on any special medication?"

The other medic was going through her ID and his face immediately showed concern as he read something on one of the cards. "Sir," he said to the other medic, presumably his superior. "Look at this."

The senior medic took a look and raised his eyebrows in alarm. "Get a stretcher now."

"What?!" Ellie exclaimed. "I don't need a stretcher. I'm fine. I need to catch a bus downtown. I'll be late!"

"Sorry miss," the senior medic said, writing something frantically on a clipboard. "You're not fit to travel. I'm surprised you were even on that plane at all. We have to take you in for evaluation."

"No!" she wrung her hands together. "I don't want to go. I'm _fine_."

She looked up and caught my gaze. Immediately, she frowned and looked away. My heart nearly broke. She looked so shattered. I felt completely helpless. What could I possibly do now? How serious was her condition?

"Let me go with her," I said, finally loud enough for someone to hear. "I'm a friend."

"No, Salim," she said. Her voice was weary now. "It's too embarrassing. My uncle will just come get me. This is way over the top. I don't need all this fussing. I'm fine! Will no one listen to me?"

The other medic was back with the stretcher now. "Please, miss," he said. "It's just policy. I'm sure you'll be let out soon enough."

Defeated, Ellie sighed and slumped onto the stretcher. As her head reclined onto the small pillow, a tear streaked down the side of her face and left a thin wet line along her cheek.

Feeling a sudden surge of protectiveness, I gripped the side of the stretcher and addressed the senior medic. "Let me accompany her to the ambulance at least."

He merely nodded. "Fine. Let's go."

While I walked along with them, Ellie refused to look at me. I was sorry for it, but I understood, oddly enough. If I had been in a similar situation, I would have felt so embarrassed I would have wanted to die. So what kind of condition leaves a person just fainting for no reason? It couldn't be good, whatever it was. When they got to street level, the ambulance was waiting. Seizing a small window of time, I got out a piece of paper from my school satchel and scribbled my address and phone number on it.

"I'm so sorry, Salim." I felt her hand touch my arm.

My heart tightened and I looked up. She looked so worn – her face was now completely pale. She wasn't doing well.

"Don't be sorry," I said. "You don't have to do anything or explain anything. Just be better."

"I can't believe this happened again. I don't want to go back." More tears appeared in her eyes.

Folding the paper twice, I took her hand and placed it in her palm. Her hands were soft and cold. "Here," I said. "It's my address and phone number in London. If you have to go back, you know you won't be alone."

She opened it slowly and read it. A tiny semblance of her lovely smile twitched on her lips.

"Now," I said. "You'll have a _good_ reason to go to London."


	4. IV

IV.

_Innocence. Is it overrated? Is it just two idle steps away from becoming naivety? And is it so bad, when we're kids? I wanted to believe so bad that things were good that I held onto blind belief for so long. Maybe that's why I ended up here. I didn't want to deal with the reality that people weren't just trying to do their best: that they lie, cheat, steal, manipulate and profligate the natural goodness that is apparent in their lives. The mind is a powerful muscle, and I have no doubt that it can generate realities for people who will it hard enough. If only I could will myself out of this place. _

_Poor creature in the cesspool next to me, I have heard your scratching. I know you are not a rat, but I do not know why you keep at the same activity, over and over, like a skipping record of white noise. Does a last will and testament really take that long to write? Maybe you're trying to dig a tunnel for our escape – have you found a spoon that digs through concrete? Maybe if you try hard enough, you can will it into being. I have no idea who you are – they never let us see each other's faces unless there is torment written on them. Maybe because if we saw semblance of peace, we'd have hope. And yet, my poor neighbor, I can hear you. So I'm continually reminded of your existence. And I know I'll never meet you, or see you wear anything other than a blank stare and a potato sack three sizes too big. I'll try to imagine better things for you than this hellhole. It'll keep me occupied while the rest of me slowly slips into insanity. _

It was the third weekend of September when another remnant of my innocence was left behind, unable to mind the gap and therefore sent sweeping under a train where it was most likely crushed to death. A gruesome end indeed. I always liked that guy. He was the one that thought cotton candy was the best treat in the world. He helped me suspend belief so that fantasy worlds were immensely enjoyable. Yes, I too could be a swashbuckling hero that got the girl in the end, preferably after a riveting and energetic duel with my arch nemesis. Sure, there'd be a bump or scrape along the way, but eventually, things worked out. My love for the classic hero movies is what partially got me into fencing. Besides that, it was one of the few sports I could do without completely being obliterated.

I was busy packing up that weekend to get read to move into a prestigious London university for filmmaking. I had toyed with the idea for some time, and to my surprise, my aunt supported this decision whole heartedly. She knew a professor there and through her contact, I was able to get a great reference to get in. Everything looked like it was shaping up nicely. Even though I would have preferred a school abroad, I couldn't pass up this once and a lifetime opportunity. And how could I refuse my aunt's generosity?

Yet even though I was grateful, I could feel my insides twisting when I heard her come up the stairs, rapping her fingernails on a wine glass. She always drank when she was trying to be motherly to me. I guess she thought it gave her courage, but I knew she was an alcoholic. She was good at hiding it to everyone else though. I smelled her before she knocked on the door. Quickly, I turned my back to the door and pretended like I was looking for something under the bed.

"Yeah?"

"Can I come in, Sam?"

"Sure, whatever."

She opened the door and gasped when she saw all of my clothes and personal items scattered around the room like there had been an earthquake. "What? You're going already? You don't start the term till October, right?"

"There's some orientation to do and I'd rather just be there for all of it instead of going back and forth."

She sighed a little and took a swig of her wine. It smelled like Chardonnay. She usually started out with white and ended up with something heavy like a merlot. I glanced at the clock for a second. It read 16:20.

"Is that really the reason?"

It sounded just like a question, but I could sense the accusation at the end of it. She was very sneaky with her judgments.

"Well, I suppose it's sensible," she continued, not waiting for a reply. "I had hoped to organize a party for you before you were off."

"It's not like I'm going to Bermuda or anything. Besides, who would come?"

"Your friends of course! Your school friends. Your fencing guys. I'm sure they would come, don't be like that. You're a likeable guy, Sam."

I looked at her long enough to roll my eyes. "Camille, you know that none of my 'friends' at school really care. They won't remember me come Christmas. There won't be enough advance notice anyway."

"Oh Sam, I'm so sorry," she said suddenly. I felt the bed move from her weight as she slumped down on the end. I guessed that soon she would start crying. She got very emotional from wine, which was always unnerving because she was not an emotional woman by nature. "I should have done better. I always should have done better."

"Oh come on, aunt, it's fine, I don't care," I said. I hoped to stop the waterworks before they started. "Look, you're busy. I wouldn't want you to be inconvenienced."

"I've done an OK job, though, Sam? Have I done enough for you? You would tell me if I hadn't right?" Big soppy tears dripped down her face and created streaks in her eyeliner.

So much for being comforting. What was I supposed to do, hug her? I could count on two hands how many times she hugged me in my entire life. So, I lied. "You did fine, aunt. The best you could have done. You gave me a home, education, food, care and specialists to help with my condition. I couldn't ask for more."

"But you're still not better, Sam! I feel so bad."

"Don't. It's not going to change anything. I'll live through it, just as I always have. And there's more flexibility at uni anyway. I've already got a note from the doctor, ok? I'll be fine. Maybe I just need to grow out of it still."

She smiled a little and then sucked in a breath to clear her nose. Squeezing my shoulder, she spoke softly. "Your parents would be so proud."

I flinched at the reference. I still hadn't seen my mother or heard from her. Guess she was having a great time in India. A sudden rage burned in my heart and I had to turn away and focus on packing again or else it would have forced angry tears out of my eyes. And there was no way I was going to cry in front of Camille.

"Sam," she said. "I know your mother would contact you if she could. I sent a note to the embassy in Calcutta in case anything turned up about her. I knew she would probably want to hear about your graduation."

So I wasn't as discreet as I thought. "Little good that did, huh?" I didn't look back at her anymore as I continued my packing. I hoped she would get the hint.

After some tense and awkward silence, she got up and started to walk towards the door. "Well, I just wanted to tell you that I'm going out. I have a date, of all things. Can you believe me, going on a date?"

"See you, then."

I sensed her standing there for another minute, as though she was waiting for me to finish my thought. But I had nothing else to say. With a creak, I heard the door open and then close. My body relaxed immediately. I could now completely focus on just getting this job done. As I sorted through my clothes, my mind kept repeating what Camille had said about contacting the embassy. It was weird. She never really brought up my mother willingly. I know that years ago she had already dealt with all the legal issues surrounding my alleged child neglect that mum had inflicted upon me when I was young. After all that was settled, Camille never mentioned my mother. It was odd all of a sudden to bring her into casual conversation, as if we maintained some kind of contact, like sending Christmas cards or yearly updates. I barely remembered her. I received a few pictures and mementos that I kept in my closet. They were handed over from all the legal settlements. Very rarely, I would receive letters that were supposedly from her, but they were so stiff and formal that I assumed they had been edited before I could read them.

Now that I was headed out on my own, there was no reason now to prevent me from contacting her. I was going to university, for god's sake. In fact, I was a little embarrassed that I had not seriously tried to reach her earlier. I guess, when I was younger, I was angry at her for so long because she did not try harder to be involved in my life. Neglect was also an easy cop out – I believed what they told me: that I sometimes didn't eat for a whole day or that she would leave for hours while I would fend for myself. I assumed I was better off with Camille, but I was still angry she didn't try to reform and come find me.

However, now that I was actually thinking more maturely, a horrid thought crossed my mind: what if something was wrong? What if something had happened? Something serious? I decided that I would contact the embassy tomorrow and ask them to do a search. Otherwise, my conscience would eat away at me. I couldn't just let Camille handle all of my family issues. That would be unfair and unwise. Besides, her bringing it up in the first place was really starting to worry me. Was she perhaps hiding something I didn't know?

While packing, I was also backing up my music collection onto blank CD's. While in the middle of burning one artist's discography, I realized that I had run out of CD's. I glanced up at the clock again. It was now 17:30. I had plenty of time to run out and get something.

Creeping downstairs, I noticed that Camille's overcoat was missing from its rung in the hallway. "Tola? Are you still around?" I called out. She was our cleaner who came once a week. But I got no answer. She must have gone home. I went down the rest of the stairs and grabbed the spare keys that were pinned to the bulletin board. I wouldn't be out long. There was a Marks & Spencer around the corner and down the street several blocks. It wasn't the cheapest place for blank CD's, but I didn't want to get on the train anywhere.

As I started to walk out the door, I heard a faint sound coming from upstairs. It was my mobile ringing. Jogging up the stairs, I lunged for the phone on my desk and saw that it was just a text message. I opened it and my face lit up with both shock and delight. It was from Ellie. We had kept in touch over the years, but we hadn't seen each other much because of the distance. Whenever she was in London, it was usually for testing so she was always very tired. Recently, she had gone into her fourth heart surgery to try to fix whatever was wrong in there. That was two weeks ago. I had been biting my fingernails ever since, waiting to hear from her. Reading the following 79 characters felt like I was reading the winning lottery numbers:

_Hey im still at hospital. Things went ok. Recovery good. Can you come by 2nite?_

Blank CD's could wait. I knew where I was going now. I grabbed my wallet with the train pass in it out of my nightstand drawer and then immediately started scouring my room for a cleaner shirt. I found one at the back of my closet and then snatched up my plaid shirt jacket from the floor. I thumbed through my wallet and silently counted the bills I had. The train ride would be a little longer, since the hospital was outside of the center. I quickly texted Ellie back, saying that I would be there in roughly 40 min, give or take traffic once I got off the train. Then, I jogged down the stairs. Seeing the blinking light on the answering machine in the kitchen reminded me that I should write a note for Camille, just in case. I scribbled one out and then stuck it on the refrigerator.

When I was outside on the steps and locking the front door, I heard the phone ring again. I flipped it open and read the text eagerly.

_Tell front desk you want room 415. Dad left for food. Can't wait to see you!_

I texted back quickly: _Me too. See u soon._ I tried to remember if there was a florist near the hospital, but I was too anxious to think clearly. I'd get her something later, maybe.

The train ride was torturous. We had to wait on the line for some dumb express train to go past us, adding valuable minutes to my trip time. When we finally stopped, I bolted out and ran up the stairs. I seriously considered just hailing a taxi because I was afraid the bus already left. But it was there. Grumbling about slow forms of public transportation, I got on the bus and grabbed the last remaining seat – right behind the driver. I hated this spot. There was never enough legroom. It seems that in the last couple years I had a growth spurt. I was now almost 1.8 meters, but I still hadn't bulked out much. I was as awkward-looking on the outside as I felt on the inside. It was one of the few times in my life where my outer shell perfectly matched my inner self. As I started to unwind the ear buds of my mp3 player, I stole a quick look out towards the street as the doors were closing.

It was that one, absentminded, unconscious look that would change the rest of my life. There, walking up to the bus stop, looking confused and concerned, I saw her. My mother. I knew it was she immediately. Her face had not changed much. I couldn't even tell if there were wrinkles. Thinking at first I was seeing things, I just merely gaped at her as the doors closed and the bus started to take off.

"W-wait," I said slowly, my throat feeling suddenly parched. The driver didn't hear me. I stood up and raised my voice a couple decibels. "Wait! Wait, wait!" I was starting to get frantic now. I looked over my shoulder, back at the bus stop. The figure of my mother was getting smaller and smaller as we headed away. "Stop, I need to stop," I said even louder as I continually mashed the stop button on the handrail.

"What?" The bus driver was not pleased.

"Please, just let me out here," I said. "I forgot something. I don't care about the fare, just let me out."

The driver glared at me but must have seen how pathetically scared I looked and so did as I asked. I jumped out and yelled thanks as I ran back to the bus stop. I didn't know what I was doing. What if this wasn't really her? What if I was just imagining it? Oh god, what if I was scaring the hell out of some poor woman?

But I wasn't imagining it.

Her face froze when she turned and saw me. Then, she narrowed her eyes and spoke as though she didn't believe what she was seeing. "Salim?! Oh, Salim? Is that You?" Her English was broken, but it was like coming home again.

"Mum." My eyes were already starting to tear up. My arms were shaking at my sides. As I sought to catch my breath, my lungs took in a faint, familiar smell. It was of coriander, jasmine, star anise and something else: a softer, subtler aroma – it immediately triggered memories and images from the deeper recesses of my mind. I saw myself as a young boy again, a pile of tinker toys on my lap. My small hand was plastered on the window, the steam forming an outline around it, as I stared out the window to a world I did not know. We were in a different place – different from home. There was a rhythmic thump in the background being synchronized with a _clack – click – clack _as zippers and buttons were tumbling around in a dryer. We were at a laundry facility. My mum was putting heaps of wet clothes into a dryer. She inserted a small white sheet and its sweet fragrance cut through the stale, lint-filled air.

All our clothes smelled like this. And now, more than a decade later, she still smelled like it. All of my fears, insecurities and anger rushed back at me with a vengeance. I was rendered a helpless boy again; I had no strength to face this. There was no mental preparation to deal with this shock.

Instead of saying anything, she took her arms and wrapped them around me. She started to sob. Instead of feeling awkward, like I normally did in this situation, I slowly raised my arms and enveloped her with them. The embrace was not how I remembered it as a child. It was not the same. I had lost childhood innocence. And there was no way I would ever get it back again.

* * *

I woke up to a sharp clacking sound. My eyes shot open and took a second to adjust to the light. I took in a breath, only to sputter and snort immediately afterwards because my nostrils were clogged. My left cheek felt wet – I looked to the side and saw a damp spot on the pillow where I had drooled in my sleep. I cleaned myself off with the back of my clammy hand.

I saw that the source of the sound that had wakened me came from the window directly ahead. A grey-ish blue cat was playing with the plastic blinds. I squinted and leaned forward. The window had drops of water on it. It must be raining, though I couldn't hear it. I fumbled around in my pocket for my phone but found after a little while that it had fallen on the floor. I tried to turn it on but the battery was dead. I had no idea what time it was, or even what day it was. I lay there, just trying to clear my foggy head, and then I slowly started to recognize bits and pieces of the room. I was on a weathered blue couch in the corner. My legs hung off the end, but that obviously didn't prevent me from engaging in deep, dreamless sleep. The cat, who was sitting on the ottoman in front of the large bay window, I recognized to be the rescued cat that Ellie had talked about in one of her letters. It was exactly how she described. I couldn't remember its name, though. I knew now that I was in the small den of Ellie's uncle's house in Dublin. It must have been a couple days, at least. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt for taking advantage of a friend's relative like this. But there was no way I was ready to go home. I wasn't even sure I knew where that was anymore.

The cat, having sensed that I was awake, turned its large, yellow eyes on me and meowed loudly. It took another swing at the blinds before jumping off the ottoman and leaping up onto the couch. It meowed again and started to knead with its paws, either as a welcome or as command to do something. With the way its claws poked through my thin t-shirt, I figured it was trying to tell me that if I didn't do what it wanted, whatever that was, I would regret it.

"Ow! Jeez." I pushed the cat away and rubbed where its claws had punctured me. "What do you want from me? I'm still waking up."

The cat jumped down, ran towards the door and began to paw at it. I got the clue. Groaning, I forced myself up from the couch and walked slowly over to the door. I opened it and the cat ran out, meowing loudly as it went into the next room.

"Oh Reese, good morning!"

Reese, that's what its name was. The voice from the kitchen was unmistakably Ellie's. Now fully awake, I followed after the cat and took in a deep yawn. There was a clock in the kitchen above the sink. It read 5:40.

"You're up early, wow."

"Yeah, apparently." I rubbed my eyes and tousled my hair, which felt greasy. "Why the hell are you up?"

"Couldn't sleep," she said. She was wearing a white robe with strawberries on it. It looked old and worn. She had matching slippers to complete the ensemble.

"Is it the medication?"

"No. I don't know. Did Reese wake you up?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. He gets anxious when it rains."

"That must be a lot, then." This was Ireland, after all. I figured the cats would have adapted to the watery weather. "What day is it?" I said.

Ellie laughed. "Saturday. Do you want some coffee?"

"Tea's fine," I said. "I'll make it. Do you have bread?"

"In the freezer. You can use the toaster."

"Thanks," I said, and I walked over to the stove where the kettle was already sitting on one of the burners. I lifted it up and felt that it was pretty full with water. I turned on the burner and then opened the freezer to find a small loaf of bread.

I felt Ellie watch me as I did this. I turned to her and offered to make her a slice. She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

I looked her over. With the robe on, I couldn't tell if she was thinning out, but I hadn't really noticed her eating much of anything lately.

"Camille called," she said suddenly.

I stiffened and rested my hand on the toaster switch. "Did she?"

"She was pretty frantic, Salim."

"I'm not going to call her back, okay?" I snapped back at her bitterly.

"Well what am I going to say to her next time?" She was clearly annoyed with me, but I didn't care.

"Tell her to go fuck herself."

"Sure, Salim, I'll tell her that." She let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. "You can't stay like this forever, you know."

"I know. Just give me some time."

"Salim, you slept for a whole day. I get why you're pissed, but what are you going to do about it? Just blow her off until she gives up or something? You going to walk out and find a new life just like that?"

"Well I'll find something, because I'm not going back there."

"Well you can't stay here," she said sternly. Her arms were folded and her brow had darkened.

I balled up my hand into a fist. "God, I know Ellie. I'm not going to just bum out here, but do you realize what she did to me? She lied to me my whole life. All that time, I could have had a relationship with my mother and she kept that all from me. So how am I supposed to react to that, huh? Am I supposed to just suck it up and go back there, pretending that nothing happened?"

She threw her hands up, as if to suggest that she had run out of answers, but was still not ready to let me have my way. "Look, I get it, Salim. You're pissed."

"You bet I am."

"But you can't just go sulking forever! Yeah, shit happens. That's life. But you don't just walk out on things because you're pissed and you want to prove that you're a 'big man' or whatever. That's not how it works. What are you going to do? Give your aunt the finger and then walk out on your own? Great, good for you. But what are you going to do after that? Get a job? Without a degree? Without any plans? Oh that's really great, Salim. You'll have really showed her."

"Geez, fine, I don't know! I don't know what I'll do all right?" I was raising my voice now. I never raised my voice at Ellie. But I was upset and ashamed. And she had seen right through me. Wasn't I going to get any sympathy? Why was it always my fault?

She looked at me with frightened eyes now. I immediately lowered my tone and my shoulders slumped. "I'm scared, Ellie. I know exactly what I don't want anymore, but I have no idea what I'm going to do now. Everything's changed. I'm confused. And how can you possibly expect me to figure it out at five in the morning?"

Ellie sighed and bowed her head. "I don't know. It really sucks, Salim. I wish you didn't have to go through this. You don't deserve this."

We were both silent for a moment and then Ellie lifted up her head and tried to distract me from going into another tirade. "Hey," she said. "You're going to need more food than just a piece of toast. Let me show you something I like to make. It's called Eggs in a Basket."

"Eggs in a what?"

"Shutup and just watch. My dad used to make this all the time. It's one of the few things he can make."

I watched her take a piece of bread and put in the toaster on the light setting. Then, she got out an egg and placed it on the counter.

"How's your dad doing these days?"

She was silent as she bent down to look deep into the cabinet for something.

"Ellie?" My voice was more worried now. "Has he still not found a job?"

"He could if the market was doing better," she said. She stood up with a small frying pan in her hand. "We're doing all right."

_Depends on your definition of "all right"_. I knew for a fact that Ellie's family had racked up a lot of medical bills trying to solve her heart condition and save her life. There was no way they were just doing "all right" with her mum only working part time and her dad struggling in a volatile market. He was a contractor for commercial construction jobs, and that industry had suffered a lot in the recent global recession.

"What about Aodhán?" Aodhán was Ellie's older brother by 7 years. When Ellie's parents were first trying to have kids, it took them awhile before Aodhán was conceived. After that, they figured their household was complete. But fate had other plans. "What's he doing these days?"

"He doesn't hack anymore," she said, her eyes narrowing. She knew where I was going with the question and wanted to end the discussion right there. I watched as she took out the piece of bread from the toaster and cut out a small circle of bread. She took the significantly thinner piece of bread and placed it in the frying pan of melted butter.

"That's too bad," I said. "He was real good at that."

"Yeah and it's real dangerous, Salim. If he's going to do that stuff, he should at least do it in a job situation where it's legal."

"That's what I mean," I said, excitedly. "He could be recruited by MI-6 to infiltrate terrorist groups and steal all their secret docs. He could be a national hero!"

Ellie cracked the egg on the side of the pan and plopped it right into the hole in the bread. She scraped the white goopy part of the egg away from the edges of the bread so it wouldn't spill over. "Oh yeah, that sounds exactly like Aodhán. No way. That's too normal for him. He'd get bored."

"Then what are you going to do? What's he going to do?"

She sighed, and I got the clue. Clearly, Aodhán had not stopped hacking. Ellie flipped over the bread with the egg inside and waited a couple more minutes. My tea water finished and I got out a cup and some milk.

"Here," she said, handing me a plate. "It's done."

"Thanks." It looked delicious. I suddenly felt really hungry and was glad that Ellie had suggested making me something more than just bread. "Eggs in a Basket, huh? Clever. Thanks a heap, Ellie."

She smiled a little, the first smile I had seen from her today, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. I felt my spirits sink when I saw this small, but significant reaction. I realized that seeing her upset was worse than seeing her angry. More than anything, I wanted her to smile. She had enough on her mind. I knew that lately, she had been feeling down because this last operation had dismantled her uni plans. She would have to put them off another year. But work was out of the question until she fully recovered from the surgery.

I sat down and suddenly didn't feel hungry anymore. But I had to eat this. Ellie had made it for me. I took a bite of it and found it was very good.

"Ellie are you sure you're not going to eat something?"

"I'll just get some more tea."

I jumped up at the chance to serve. "Let me make it," I said. "Go sit down."

She chuckled a little. "All right. But don't let your breakfast get cold. I worked hard on that!"

"How long do you think it takes for me to make a simple cup of tea? Sit down, woman."

"Fine, you little punk." She stuck out her tongue and sat down at the other end of the table.

I brought her tea over soon after and reached for a coaster before setting it on the wooden table. "Thanks," she said.

"No problem." I grinned and watched her take the first sip before I continued eating my own breakfast.

"So what political manifesto are you reading now?"

"Wow, that was out of the blue."

"Well you're always reading something."

"Lady, it's what I do."

"Is it Immanuel Kant this time?"

"I read him as a first year."

"Show off."

"He's not very political, either."

"Whatever. He should be, the prick."

I laughed and choked on the food a little bit. Ellie sometimes had the most poignant observations about the people literary critics loved to idealize. "I'm actually reading this rare gem by a different crazy German that Fastim found for me."

"Fastim? Is he the guy you met on the train when you were doing that European tour last summer?"

"Yeah. He emails me when he can, and apparently he was in Münster and found this book at a used bookstore. It's this crazy rant about how the holocaust didn't exist and how Germany is still going to win world war two."

"Special."

"Yes. Welcome to fantasy island."

"I could see you owning a used book store, actually."

I squinted in confusion and then smirked at her. "Really? That's all you ever see me achieve in life? A bookstore owner? Wouldn't I get bored?"

"No," she said. "You don't mind the slow life. That's your personality. Plus, you love books. Why not?"

Actually, she made a good point. Yet, for some reason, I was disturbed slightly that she only saw me as a used bookstore owner. That really didn't seem like serious relationship material.

"Salim? What's wrong? I didn't mean it like that – of course I see you doing other things."

Great, she must have noticed how quickly I became quiet. I cleared my throat and didn't look directly at her. "Uh, no it's not that."

"What then?" She attempted to encourage me by putting her hand on my arm and squeezing lightly.

Unfortunately, this just made me more nervous. I cleared my throat again and scratched at the back of my head, as though this would be the trigger to get me to say the right things in exactly the way I wanted. Sadly, my words always had it out for me.

"Well," I began cautiously. "You said you wondered what I would do after this and if I had a plan. That got me seriously wondering if I do or not. I guess I haven't been really good at making plans, at least after this whole mess happened, because I realize now that I have to leave things open in case something…" I forced myself to look her in the eyes. They held a steady, but curious expression. I swallowed hard. "In case something happens. I want to leave room for… someone else." I felt my face redden immediately after I said this. It must have been pretty obvious because Ellie's expression fell.

She retreated her hand away from me. "Oh," was all she said.

I didn't want to lose momentum. I was finally feeling brave enough. "Ellie, I can't deny that coming here was selfish on my part. When I had nowhere else to go, I knew I could turn to you. Because you're there for me whenever it's important…when it's really important. That's the kind of person I want to have around…throughout my whole life." I felt my voice cracking. I didn't want to scare her. I didn't want to be too obvious with my words because I felt like I was so obvious with my actions. I adored her. There was no other girl in my eyes. She was the best. I had felt that way ever since I had met her. Even when all our life's complications had come up, I was confident that we would work it out eventually.

"Salim…" she started. She didn't seem too enthusiastic to keep going. From her expression, I could tell that it wasn't going to be good.

I took her hand in mine and pressed it softly. "You're my best friend, Ellie, you know? And I… I wish… I _want_ it to be more than that, too. That's why I can't make any plans yet. I want to know what you think about…well, what I've just said."

"Salim, please," she said. She wiggled her hand out of my grasp and put it in her lap. She refused to look at me. "You know I'm your friend. I'll always be your friend. But – oh god, why did you have to say this now?"

"Because it's the truth," I said. "And I can't pretend to feel anything different. You're the best, Ellie." I said the words strongly and clearly, not because I felt that my courage and enthusiasm would somehow win her over. Rather, it was more like, I could not help but to say them. My heart was nearly overflowing. I wanted her to know how I felt about her. She needed to hear it.

"And what do you expect me to do? How am I supposed to react to that? You shouldn't, by the way, make plans that revolve around me. That's ridiculous! And, it puts pressure on me. How am I supposed to come out of this without looking like I'm totally heartless? Did you think about that at all, Salim?"

Heart in my throat, I could only stare at her for a little while. I felt helpless. This was the only plan I had. I could not even begin to imagine a life that didn't have the possibility of having Ellie in it as my girl.

"Ellie?" My voice cracked. I wanted to reach out and hold her hand, but my own hands were dripping with sweat. "What are you trying to say?"

Finally, she turned to me, but I soon regretted this. Her eyes were red and wet with angry tears. "Salim, I don't like you like that, okay? There, you made me say it. I'm a horrible person. Now, if you would please excuse me," she got up hurriedly and wiped her eyes. "I have to get ready. I have things to do today."

Somehow, I managed to speak. "What kind of things?"

"It's none of your business, but I'm meeting someone for lunch."

"What kind of someone?"

"Salim," she said with her voice heavy, as if preparing me for the weight of the words that would soon follow. "It's my boyfriend. I'm meeting with my boyfriend."


End file.
